A Childless Father
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: "It's a lifetime deal. Maybe he did get over it." A/N: discusses death. A series of ruminations around Patrick Jane's loss.
1. Malibu Musing

Thirteen years ago...

I'm used to pain, grief and sadness. It's part of the job, a family ritual, in fact. We've owned this funeral home for several generations. I like to think that I'm in the people business, helping the living.

The entrance chime tolls, and I look up from my desk, immediately plastering my patented "bereavement counselor" look on my face. I close my book, silently slipping it into my desk drawer. The novel I've been reading is not appropriate to the occasion.

Two men and a woman enter as I move to the door. Hmm. A family, maybe? No...Maybe not, but they seem solicitous towards one of the men. I look for wedding rings, you never know these days.

Ah, there's a ring on the guy the others seem most concerned about. I can see by the way they're standing, that they're all supporting him. The man looks stunned, but not red-eyed. Kind of oblivious. Usually they've been crying, crying, crying.

Poor guy looks so young. And a bit familiar. I look him over. Well-dressed, designer jeans, rumpled designer shirt, but obviously hasn't groomed himself in the last day or so. Totally understandable. The others don't seem like they belong with him. A little white-trash-like, if you ask me. Not the types we usually serve in our Malibu branch.

I carefully avoid showing any of this on my face. My job is to observe the customer, and divine their needs. Socialite, celebrity, or the help, we serve them the same way.

Of course, I know why they're here. They're here to reenact an ages-old scene. A sad but familiar scene to those of us who serve the public as funeral directors. Someone dies, and the surviving, distraught family members and friends are forced to choose a burial plot and casket; plan the funeral services. If only...if only they'd pre-plan. I tell you, pre-planning's the answer. Would spare everyone a lot of grief, so to speak. Alleviate one of the most stressful, emotionally draining times in their lives.

I wonder who the dearly deceased is. Probably a parent or grandparent.

A man and the woman confer in whispers, while the other guy stands away from the group. He slumps against the wall in the hallway. It's then that I recognize the man. Good Lord, I think he's that famous TV psychic on all the talk shows! The one whose family was butchered by the smiley face killer! This sale will definitely be one for the funeral director cocktail party circuit. We get a lot of celebrities, but the combination of celebrity and serial killer is unique.

I wonder if the tabloids will cover the service.

I have to say, he looks really bad. Oh well, the event affects everyone in different ways.

I wonder if I should go talk with him, offer him a water, get someone from our staff to take him aside and sit with him.

Usually we wait a bit until the bereaved have had a chance to get their bearings. It would be unseemly, even in Malibu, to start talking price and options.

It's clear they're here to choose a casket, actually more than one, now that I think about it. The poor guy lost his family.

Oh God, it hits me that one is for a child.

The other man with him, a younger man, approaches me.

"Welcome to our showroom," I tell him.

We shake hands.

Introductions are made. Primary bereaved's the husband and father. The main guy seeming to be in charge introduces himself as the deceaseds' brother and uncle. The woman's a friend.

The guy who's the primary bereaved does not shake my hand.

"Sir," I say, "I am truly sorry for your loss."

He stares down at his shoes, hands moving. I get all verklempt for a moment because the poor guy's twisting his wedding ring.

"Umm, can we see what's available?" the brother asks, snapping me back to attention.

Now normally, I have a regular spiel I go into. "This is a showroom, not of vehicles for speed and transport, but of containers for the empty vessel your loved ones have become." And so forth.

In the split second before I launch into my spiel, I look at the primary bereaved. He shoots a look at me that...well never mind. I sense my cue. No hurry here to make the sale.

Danny, the brother, whispers to me: "This is a terrible thing that happened to my sister and niece. We'll pick the caskets for Paddy."

Ah. I have a name now for the primary bereaved.

I watch Paddy's face. It remains impassive. The hands are still fiddling with the ring.

"Umm...should we go pick something out?" the woman asks.

Paddy flinches.

"Please, sir, come and sit." I gesture in the direction of a little lounge area we've set up.

Paddy ignores me. Stares down at his brown shoes. Fiddles with the ring.

I turn to Danny and the woman. "Did we have something particular in mind?"

The woman shows me a photo of the deceased. Beautiful. "My best friend," she says, and chokes up. "And her little girl."

Sometimes, people think the hardest part of this job is dealing with the little angels that pass on. Why just earlier today, we had a little one-year-old angel come through. A little girl who'll never learn to read, or ride a bike. The little girl here is a bit older. And at least she's with her momma.

"May I ask what kind of service is being planned?" I segue into an area I feel comfortable with.

The woman tells me that only a viewing will be held here, but burial will be in Sacramento. No problem, we handle this type of thing all the time.

I look over at Paddy, then continue. "Religious?"

"Generic," the woman whispers, patting my hand. "He..." she whispers conspiratorially, "...doesn't believe in any of that."

"Ah yes."

Paddy is still looking down at his shoes.

Danny is flipping through the casket and services brochures in the foyer. I take Danny and the friend into the showroom, steering them to our "Littlest Angels" section.

"Usually," I say, "in these situations, families pick the little one's casket first and we match to any...larger ones."

They nod in understanding.

"All of them come as matched sets," I helpfully add.

What they don't know is that we have tiered pricing. The showroom they're in is the upscale one. More comfortable than a Cadillac, we always tell the bereaved. I can see that this group wants nothing but the best, as they should.

"Which cemetery will they be spending their time at?" I ask.

The woman hands me a note with the details. "I think we'll just need a simple visitation here," she whispers. "Of course, given what happened, no..."

"...No viewing, of course." I spare her having to think of what that would be like. From what I read in the tabloids, no mortician on the planet could make those two look human again.

I'm familiar with the cemetery they'll be using. It's one we often do business with up in Sacramento, and we have a regular transport arrangement for the deceased. Going up I-5's not a problem.

"Good choice," I say with as much reassurance as I can place in my voice. "Just let me check on the plot's availability." I go into the office, quickly call the cemetery and verify the arrangements, made by a "Danny Ruskin".

When I come back into the showroom, there's only one more thing for them to do now. Arrange the visitation.

I return and clear my throat. "Ahem, preliminary death certificates?" I intone.

Danny fidgets and produces the papers.

Jane, Angela Ruskin. Jane, Charlotte Anne.

Now I get to the more social aspect, plus I'm in business, and have to take care of that.

"There are some...options you may want to consider," I say. "Limousine, flowers, motorcycle escort, register books for the guests to sign, cards, memorial folders, certified copies of death for legal purposes, obituaries-these are all options..."

"Simple," the woman answers, "keep it simple."

I notice that she's looking up at the wall behind me. I know what's there. Lovely quote, lovingly cross-stitched by my mom many years ago. God's words to Adam in the Garden of Eden, Genesis 3:19: "By the sweat of your brow shall you get bread to eat, until you return to the ground-for from it you were taken. For dust you are, and to dust you shall return."

"No," Danny says, and looks over at the woman, "only the best for my sister. We'll go with your top-of-the-line, for everything."

I can see part of the hallway, and I can partially see Paddy. He's still staring at his shoes, still fiddling with his wedding ring. That's going to be a hard habit to break, but most of them take it off within a year, so he'll be OK.

I sort of indicate Paddy with a nudge of my shoulder. "Will he be alright?" I whisper to Danny and the woman.

Danny responds, "Oh sure. And, we'd like the White Angel model. For both."

I nod, and tell them I will arrange for something that's truly top-of-the-line. I smile indulgently at the woman, pat her on the arm and adjourn to my office with her and Danny.

I hand him the paperwork, and he indicates how the financial arrangements will be handled. He gives me the business card of Paddy's business manager. I know him well-we've done business before.

They finish, and are ready to go.

Funerals are funny things. We all need one, eventually. A funeral's a ritual common to all societies. A ritual whose purpose is really to help those left behind to heal.

It's a public service that I provide. A service to help them acknowledge that someone has died; to support their mourning. It's an important ritual: honor, remember and affirm the life of the person who died; search for the meaning.

I realize I've been saying all this aloud, to Danny.

I say my goodbyes to them, with my cell phone number and pager. I want to make sure all goes smoothly at the visitation. I want to make sure I can sell more extras, should they decide to add them.

I hope Paddy will be alright. He's young. He should get over it quickly. After a decent interval, clean himself up-a rich and famous guy like him should have no problem leaving this all behind him.

* * *

><p>Three Years Ago...<p>

I long ago stopped thinking about that day. We go through so much in this industry!

But last night, CNN Headline News showed this same Paddy guy, one Patrick Jane. Wanted as a fugitive! Apparently, he'd killed the serial killer who'd killed his wife and child.

Wild. How things came full circle, I think.

Thinking back and now with more experience in this industry, it strikes me as strange that Paddy never did attend the visitation.

For some reason-and I know I'm supposed to be emotionally detached, but cannot help myself-I decide to check on the graves of these poor Janes.

I text the guy who's my contact these days.

An hour later, he texts me back-with a photo of the graves. They've stood the test of time well. And since we back our product with a lifetime warranty, I'm confident that the caskets are doing well, too.

I pick up the phone, and decide to tell him my story. The personal touch, you know. He was aware that this Jane guy was now a fugitive-in fact the murder took place right near the cemetery.

And then he says the darndest thing. Flowers have been regularly delivered to the grave-site over the last three years. Before that, the graves were not tended to. He has no idea what the relationship is, but apparently a "Teresa Lisbon" has been making sure that someone remembers them-on the day of their deaths.

It's a lifetime deal.

Maybe he did get over it.


	2. Chateau Marmont

Twelve Years Ago

I get up and move over to the bar here at the Chateau Marmont. My plan to meet a rich guy has not worked out so well tonight.

I did what "Cosmopolitan" magazine suggested-dressed up in business attire, threw in a dose of Oprah Winfrey suggestions, and hoped for the best. Hang out in the lobby of the most luxe hotel, and look approachable.

Unfortunately, it turns out that Security suspects any single woman lurking in the lobby of being a working girl.

So I fake being here for a legitimate reason, and make my way to the bar, and order a white wine spritzer. I plan to nurse that baby for the next hour.

I surreptitiously look to my left and my right. Maybe there's a likely prospect at the bar. To the right: two balding business types, and look, what have we here on the left, a somewhat rumpled but sexy sun-kissed blond. Blondie looks like he's nursing a drink too. Whiskey from the looks of it.

He looks like he could be a surfer, but he's well-dressed. Maybe he's a model. Or actor. Or screenwriter.

I wish I had money. I'd buy him another drink.

I make my way over to him with my spritzer. Figure I'll be direct and use the two bald dudes as an excuse.

"It's nice here," I slowly say. "I needed to get away from those two over there. Kind of creepy." I wait a beat, then ask "Are you here on business?"

Blondie ignores me. His hands wrap around his whiskey tumbler, but that doesn't hide the wedding ring.

Damn.

Cheer up, I think. He could have friends who are single.

"You must miss your wife..." I try to be helpful.

Now I get a reaction. He looks up and stares at me, his eyes blank, cold.

Scares me off.

* * *

><p>About a month later, I'm back at the Marmont. Kill me now, but Blondie's at the bar again. He's accompanied by two men in upscale polo shirts. They're shaking their heads in disgust.<p>

I sidle up to the bar, and order a Chardonnay. I need something stronger tonight.

The Polo Shirts move to the other end of the bar. Can't hurt to get closer to them.

I overhear snippets of conversation.

"...holed up here since it happened, can't go back to that house."

"...losing a ton of money, getting sued for breach of contract. He won't go back on stage."

"...without the act, he can't afford us. Or this place."

Polo Shirts must be agents of some sort. Could be worth knowing!

I splurge and have a second Chardonnay. It gives me the courage to approach Blondie again.

"You look like you could use a friend," I say. "Saw you here last month."

He glances over at me, then reverts to having eye sex with his whiskey.

I try again. "Look, my name's Jessica, and I can see you're not doing well. I've been known to be a good listener."

Blondie doesn't react.

I try again. "I see you're married. Got kids?"

Now that gets his attention. He reaches for his wallet, and flips to a photo of a darling little girl. She is adorable.

"You must really miss her," I say, trying to make eye contact. "What's she into? 'Little Mermaid'? 'Belle'?"

Polo Shirts look over at me.

"Hey, you want to ditch these two?" I indicate the two Polo Shirts with a nod over my shoulder.

He finally looks at me, a wild look in his eye.

"No, nothing like THAT!" I exclaim. "Let's go sit at a table."

He agrees.

We sit in uncomfortable silence for a good half-hour.

* * *

><p>He's finished his whiskey. And begins to talk.<p>

"That day was the single best day of my life."

"Which day?" I stupidly respond.

"The day Charlotte was born."

"Your little girl?

He nods.

"Don't know what to say," he mumbles.

"Don't know what to say about what?" I lean forward.

"Kids. Being married."

I smile, encouraging him.

"They're dead."

It's like a vat of ice was poured over me. Is this some sort of trick to get me to go up to his room?

I'm stunned and blurt out: "Both of them?"

He continues. "Don't know how...not a father if I don't have a kid no more."

I do not know how to respond.

"Just a dad for a few years..."

Awkwardly, I reach over and pat his arm.

That was the last of my Cosmo-inspired man-hunting stunts.

* * *

><p>Three Years Ago...<p>

I long ago stopped thinking about Blondie.

But last night, he was on MSNBC! Blondie! It turns out his name is Patrick Jane, and he's wanted as a fugitive! Apparently, his wife and child were killed by a serial killer a few months before our encounter at the Chateau Marmont. Now he's wanted-for killing the serial killer who'd killed his wife and child!

Wild. Crazy. How things came full circle, I think.

I turn my attention back to the little girl in the high chair. It's snack time!

I'm so grateful to have her in my life. You see, a few years ago, I did meet the man of my dreams and we had an adorable baby girl.

But something went wrong. She only lived for nine days. An unforeseeable complication of childbirth, they said.

I remember when we decided to take her off life support. The doctors left, and I held her in my arms. I don't remember much of anything else, except for my husband's hand over mine.

It was right around two in the morning when she died.

In the years since, I've basically gotten over it. Had this absolute angel, though right now she's throwing spaghetti Os at me.

I understand Blondie now. When people ask me how many kids I have, I sometimes don't know whether to answer one or two.

And to take revenge on your child's killer? Not an option for me-I'd have to kill God, I guess.

Did Blondie not understand that this was coincidence? I can ask why my baby had to die, but it won't make sense. You can try to make sense of a universe where solar systems explode and kids die. A world where a nice guy like Blondie has his wife and kid murdered.

I wonder why Blondie couldn't just get over it. Like everyone else does.

I guess it's easier if you have a partner, a spouse. Blondie didn't have that.

And now the law's going to go after him.


	3. Cathedral Confessions

Eleven years ago...

I slide the screen and await the next parishioner. I love the old-fashioned aura of Sacramento's Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament. It's as if the smell of incense has been embedded in the wooden pews.

This is a great place for my first assignment! I really enjoy being at the Cathedral. We get a lot of interesting people coming through here, especially when the State Legislature is in session. There is often a, shall I say, more interesting spin to the sins being confessed. Not that I can talk about it...

I cough discretely, to let my next parishioner know that I am ready. Then I make the Sign of the Cross towards the screen.

The parishioner begins. "Bless me Father, for I have sinned..."

It's a young woman. I brace myself for the usual: one-night-stands, gossiping, spending time in chat rooms, and so forth. You do this job enough times, you can practically predict who will say what!

I can see her in profile: she must be devout-I also see the glint of a large cross necklace.

"Father, it has been...umm...since...probably Easter since my last confession."

"That's OK, what's important is that you're here now," I reassure her. "How can I help you?"

"Father, I am in law enforcement..." she begins, her voice strong and resolute, "I'm a cop...and I had to take a life last month."

I love law enforcement people! I love when we do the "Blue Mass" for public service and law enforcement officials. That's always a highlight of my ministry-my dad was a cop.

Maybe I should tell her this, in the hope that it will make her feel more comfortable?

No...best not to get too personal, I decide.

She takes a deep breath. "He was a terrible, evil person, and by shooting him, I saved the lives of two other people."

"I'm happy you turn to God in your job," I say. "It's the right thing to do. I have no doubt that if it was a lawful act, in the service of justice, that God forgives you."

"Thank you, Father. It was ruled as a justifiable shooting."

She seems distraught, so I prompt her to continue.

And she does...and it is the usual litany of the modern young woman. Sexual situations, skipping Mass, using birth control, not spending time with family, cursing...and the ever popular "impure thoughts."

When she's done, she concludes with the standard, "For these, and all of my sins, I am truly sorry."

I get ready to assign her penance and to give absolution. But there's something in her voice, something in the way her breath hitches, that clues me in to the fact that she's still got something on her mind. I think it has to do with this on-the-job shooting. I've got a good sense about these things.

See, going to confession is like going to the doctor. People always beat around the bush and then there's a last-minute "one more thing" that takes a lot more time than planned.

"Is there anything else?" I ask as gently as possible.

I try not to add "My child", because this young lady sounds like she means business. Plus she undoubtedly carries a gun.

Instead, I go with: "Perhaps related to the job?"

There's a moment of silence, slightly longer than your usual pause.

And here it comes.

"There's a man, father."

"Go on..."

"I was very...unkind to him."

Now that's a surprise! I was sure it was going to be something like confessing to breaking the Sixth Commandment with a married coworker. We hear this from cops all the time.

But I am intrigued. It takes a special person to be sensitive to not having treated someone well.

"How so?" I prod.

"I told him to get over it. He was in so much pain, Father, it was so obvious. But I just ignored it. I could not wait to get him out of my office. That was all I could think of-just get rid of him so I would not have to deal with him anymore."

Now this, I can really relate to. We're both in jobs where one needs to try to keep a modicum of detachment. If you get too involved with people's problems, it can make you less effective.

"God will forgive you," I assure her.

"But Father, he was a victim. A victim of a terrible, terrible crime. Father, I've seen the crime scene photos, and what happened to this man's beautiful wife and little girl...I don't think I could go on living if this had happened to me."

Oh my God, I think she's crying. I usually only get that reaction from married men who cheat.

"They no longer looked like people, Father. Just slices of flesh. And he...this poor, poor man, had to find them like that. He came home after a long day at work and found them that way. Massacred."

I hope she doesn't go into details. I'm kind of squeamish.

"When he left home that morning, he was a husband and a father. Now he's just...alone."

Yes, she definitely is crying now.

I cough. "There's a box of Kleenex underneath the kneeler." I hope I am being helpful.

She continues. "And what did I say to him? This poor man, I told him to get over it. To start a new life..."

The poor woman's so distraught, I wish I could just reach in and give her a hug.

"He came to me for help, and I basically turned him away."

I hear the sound of a tissue being pulled out of the box. Good.

"He's a father without a child now. A husband without a wife. And what did I say to him?" She ends with a bitter laugh.

"Yes...?" I ask, tentatively.

"I told him to get cleaned up. That he had a homeless vibe about him. And then I sent him away. Told him to come back tomorrow."

Now this I can work with.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," I advise. "God will forgive you."

"But will he?" she asks.

I think she means this man.

"Will you be seeing this man again as part of the job?" I ask.

"I think so," she says, "he'll be in to follow-up on his family's case."

"Then for your penance," I advise, "Make it a point to be sincere about helping him and every other victim you deal with."

I see her bowed head nodding, but I sense she's waiting for more. Well I'm not the type to assign a dozen Hail Marys and Our Fathers.

I think quickly. The Beatitudes.

"And," I continue, "Before this day ends, pick up a Bible and turn to the 'Sermon on the Mount'. Read it, and take it to heart"

I go on autopilot. "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."

I then go through the motions of giving her absolution, and hope she feels somewhat healed.

* * *

><p>Three years ago...<p>

I slide the screen and await the next parishioner. I glance down to the light by my foot-it's where I keep my Kindle to pass the time until a parishioner comes in for the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

I really enjoy being assigned to this modern parish, though I now spend too much time as an administrator. Hearing Confession's an easy job-just regular people with regular problems. It's not like someone comes in and confesses to one of the Big Bads-like murder.

I cough discretely, to let the next parishioner know that I am ready. Then I make the Sign of the Cross towards the screen.

The parishioner begins. "Bless me Father, for I have sinned..."

It's a woman. I brace myself for the usual: hook-ups, infidelity, gossiping, spending too much time on Facebook, and so forth. You do this job enough times, you can practically predict who will say what!

"It has been...umm...I really don't remember when I last went to Confession."

"That's OK, what's important is that you're here now," I answer. "How can I help you?"

"Father, I fell in love..."

I'm stunned as I listen to her story. An epic love story-so chaste that even the Church would approve. A search for justice. And then the fatal mistake: taking justice into one's own hands.

I'm glad for her soul that she has come in. I counsel her to pray for this man she fell in love with and to have no more contact with him.

After I give her absolution, I reflect on how wrong I was. Parishioners can stun me. There is nothing usual about the tale of a woman who's been in love for a decade with a former conman whose family's been murdered, and who has now meted out his own justice. With her complicity. Did I hear correctly that she gave him her gun?

Exhausted and feeling profoundly sad, I retire to the rectory. The housekeeper has Fox News on the TV. The lead story: the Blake law enforcement corruption scandal, and a focus on a fugitive wanted for the killing of one of our sheriffs.

That happened right by the Cathedral where I used to work.


	4. Bullpen Daddy Issues

Present Day...

He was only a few years younger than her father would be had he lived, she realized.

She also realized that two men could not be more different.

Her father had been very old school-a strict disciplinarian, not around much because of his career in the military. Her family had moved every few years, and she found it hard to make any permanent attachments. She learned early on that other girls grew up in the same home through high school and had stable friendly environments. So she'd spent her adolescence trying hard to gain his approval and attention. But nothing she did seemed to satisfy him. She could always do better, he'd say.

The day she received her congressional nomination to West Point, he grunted in approval but then changed the subject. Later, when she was accepted, she thought she detected a frisson of pride, just for a moment, until he told her she'd best start a running program and a diet.

The day she left for West Point, he shook her hand goodbye.

Then he died.

His death should not have wreaked havoc on her military career; generous leave and even a sabbatical were available to her. But her desire to continue on the Long Gray Line completely evaporated when he died. There was no one left to approve of her being an Army officer.

The grief counselor she saw after her father died told her that she had unresolved "daddy issues" and was doomed to forever seek his approval unless she took concrete steps in her life. Her mother was not very helpful-as an old-school Army wife, she stayed out of the limelight. A career was something she never aspired to, and so young Michelle Vega found herself adrift.

After intensive therapy, she withdrew from the Academy, and finished college in-state. A law enforcement career appealed to her, and when the FBI showed up for a career fair, she jumped at the chance they offered her. It was a two-way street: they were seeking a more diverse workforce, and let's face it, she was a two-fer. But in training, she held her own, and was now avidly hoping to progress through the Bureau's ranks, unencumbered by the shadow of her father.

Mr. Jane was quite the opposite.

For one thing, she'd never encountered someone who was both so encouraging and also so critical at the same time. Then there were days when she could do nothing right and he'd be on automatic pilot, issuing proclamations about the case of the day. On those days, it seemed that only Agent Lisbon could handle him.

But most days, he was a quietly nurturing mentor to her, taking the time to show her things that were not normally part of an FBI agent's training. He taught her biofeedback techniques to calm her nerves, and observational techniques which greatly aided her performance at a crime scene. Her shooting range scores and accuracy climbed astronomically after using Mr. Jane's techniques. These were all things he did not have to do-he'd just notice something about her and find a good time to work on them with her.

Mostly he was kind and patient with her, but above all, helpful. He was always friendly in the break room, took time to ask about her weekend, and constantly ready with some sort of mental challenge for her.

Her peers in the building were oh-so-curious about him. On a shallow level, there wasn't a straight woman or gay man who did not notice how attractive he was. And of course, everyone knew about his tragic past, and thanks to national and international media, about his vigilante killing of the notorious serial killer who'd murdered his family.

She'd often go to the break room on a different floor to chat with other young women agents-let's face it, Agent Lisbon and until recently, Agent Fischer, were a lot older than her. She'd hoped to learn a lot from Agent Lisbon, especially given her stellar history in California, but she spent most of her time with the other senior personnel.

But among her age group, everyone was just dying to know what Mr. Jane was like. Curiosity spawned questions such as "Is he really doing Agent Lisbon?", "Don't you just want to run your fingers through his hair?", "Is he not-so-secretly married" and "I wonder just what talents those long fingers possess." And that was just a list of the most popular ones.

She was honestly able to respond that 1) Agent Lisbon's personal life was just that and 2) No, after accidentally using "his" teacup, there was no way she would advise anyone to take any liberties with any of Mr. Jane's possessions, physical or otherwise. As to the marriage question, Agent Cho had told her that Mr. Jane had never taken his ring off as a sign of his commitment to his late wife. This caused the other young female agents to swoon-who would be so lucky as to be the first one to get him to take that ring off! And as far as his impossibly long, graceful and agile fingers were concerned, well she was just interested in how he used them to show her various trickster techniques. As a result, she was a quick learner and spent many a break teaching others how to balance a stack of fruity-smelling markers.

One thing she was curious about was his own case. Rumor had it that he killed the 'Red John' killer with his bare hands, then fled the country. She knew that was true because the plan to retrieve Mr. Jane from some sort of island paradise was discussed and concocted within earshot of her desk. When he finally came on board, she googled his case information and discovered that not only was he notorious, but he'd been very rich and very famous. She made it a point to check FBI records, and seeing the before and after photos of his wife and daughter was heartbreaking. What an incredibly attractive family they had been! She didn't know how he'd survived their attack, how he went on living. It was bad enough to be a widower as a result of crime-but to also be a father without a child...

At least her own father had died of a terrible disease-cancer-a commonplace disease that many people could relate to.

She could also report that Mr. Jane was usually kind and patient with her. Talking to her therapist, it didn't take long to figure out that maybe, he looked at her as a surrogate daughter. Had his little girl lived, she'd only be a few years younger than her.

She shivered. Mr. Jane was a killer himself, only free by virtue of some sort of plea deal from what she could tell. Her Papa would never have done anything like that. He was an honorable man who served his country and made many sacrifices for it.

And yet, the fact remained that of everyone in her work environment, Mr. Jane was the kindest and most helpful to her. Like her ideal father would be.

But he was not her father. And as both her mother and her therapist told her, her own father had been very proud of her. And would be proud today of her accomplishments. He just did not know how to tell her. But he was proud. He was her father, after all.

She looked over at Agent Lisbon's desk. Mr. Jane was sitting behind her, on the couch, balancing a strange-looking turquoise teacup. Without thinking, she smiled at him, and he gave her a reassuring smile in return, and lifted his cup in salute.

She quickly turned away. That teacup. She'd have to ask Agent Cho-knowing Mr. Jane, there probably was a story to it.


	5. Grave Musings

The near future...

It's a beautiful, dappled-sunny day. Sacramento isn't your stereotypical California city, but days like these, with a gentle sunshine and a soft breeze, make me happy that I live here.

I come here every Saturday afternoon when I am in town. My Sweetheart's here and talking to him keeps us in touch. It's been twenty-something years since he left me, but his voice is still clear. He too loved days like these.

I brush the dusty dirt off his headstone, and arrange a new arrangement of flowers at its base. Then I talk to him about my week, about our grandkids, and the latest stupid thing the neighbors have done. Maybe next week I'll mention that-gasp-younger man (by a whopping five years)-I met through a woman at book club. Maybe next week I'll mention the "For Sale" sign now up in front of the house.

Our conversation over, I lean against his headstone, and look around, savoring the dappled sunshine filtering through the trees. If it weren't for the sounds of the traffic nearby, you'd swear the dead were talking back in the sounds of the breeze.

I see motion in the distance, and look up, and wave back. When you regularly go to the cemetery, you'll find that people are generally creatures of habit, and you get to know your loved one's neighbors. Each has a story to tell.

As I wave, I notice the beautiful flowers near me, a row over. They're jarring, and catch my attention, because the two graves they grace are usually unadorned. Ah yes, I remember-it's that time of year again. Two headstones, side by side, a mother and daughter. No one ever visits when I'm there, but each year, flowers appear. I sometimes brush off the dust and dirt as I pass by.

I pat my Sweetheart's headstone, and prepare to say goodbye for this week. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. I like to play a favorite song before I leave. As I scroll through our playlist, I hear the prattle of a toddler, and smile-it reminds me of one of the grandkids.

Looking up, I see a small family approach, a row over. Man, woman, and stroller. I smile at them but they do not notice me. The toddler is of indeterminate gender-at that stage where unless the child is overtly dressed in pink or blue, you can't tell if it's a girl or boy. This child is dressed in a happy yellow shirt underneath denim overalls, legs kicking wildly, crazy gurgling giggles expressing its happiness.

I wonder who they belong to. Maybe they're from out of town, visiting a deceased grandparent.

I abandon my plan to play one of our songs-my Sweetheart would have loved hearing the happy squeals of a toddler! I decide to let the breeze and this delightful child's vocalizations end our visit.

The family approaches, just a row over, and I sink to my knees to afford them some privacy. I can always pretend to rearrange the flowers, after all.

But instead of continuing past me, the family stops-in front of the two graves that get no visitors. I see the woman make the Sign of the Cross, bowing her head in prayer, as the man steps back, almost leaning against someone else's headstone. His hand rhythmically moves the stroller back and forth, and it looks like he's staring off in the distance. A moment later, the woman gently pats each headstone, and then turns to the man and child.

There is a look of deep sadness on her face, which morphs into a sad smile as she kneels down to engage with the child. She pulls the child out of the stroller, pats the man's arm, and turns towards the chapel. There's a restroom in there and I assume she's going to change the toddler's diaper. She's barely taken a step before the man reaches out and pulls them back towards him. Shifting the baby to one hip, she hugs him and whispers in his ear. A second later, the wriggling child forces them to disengage and she once again heads off towards the chapel, readjusting the child.

I'm really happy that I'm small enough that crouching, I'm basically hiding behind my Sweetheart's headstone. Although this is a place of grief, most of us come here to share our lives, to let them know we are OK. It seems intrusive to partake of someone's sadness, even here.

Then I see the man actually sit down on the headstone he was leaning against. I'm pretty sure that's against cemetery etiquette, but who am I to judge?

I take in his appearance. He's no longer young, and his face looks tired, careworn. Well of course, I think-running after a toddler at his age! His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and it seems strange to me that he's wearing a vest and dress pants on a weekend. On the other hand, given the way most people dress when they come here, it's pretty admirable.

I watch as he continues to look off into the distance. He's probably recalling a happy memory-if he's the one related to the deceased. Maybe the two dead are part of the woman's family, I guess.

The breeze continues to gently sway the trees' branches as I watch his back. I'll just wait here until the woman and baby come back and they all leave.

A few minutes later, the woman and toddler return, and I see her steps grow quicker as a look of concern wrinkles her brow. She too isn't all that young, and I note as she places the babbling toddler on the grass in front of the smaller headstone. She reaches into the stroller for a sippy cup and hands it to the child, who promptly rolls it around in the grass.

The woman turns to the man and he immediately reaches his arms around her waist, and places his head on her abdomen. From the way her grip tightens, I can only guess that he is crying, overcome. They are in a capsule-world of grief.

The prattling baby draws my attention to the headstones. The toddler is now upright, grasping for the flowers.

Both parents reach for the child, and I rest against my Sweetheart's headstone as they place the child in the stroller and slowly leave. The woman's grip on the man's arm looks like it's going to leave bruises.

* * *

><p>More years into the future...<p>

I walk through the cemetery on a rare visit to Sacramento. Mom and Dad don't know that I'm doing this, but I feel compelled to be here. It's where my sister is, after all.

I have vague memories of visiting here a couple of times through the years. It's definitely my earliest memory of seeing Dad in tears.

It's weird knowing that I'm only on this planet because she's in the ground there. We don t talk about it much, but it's of course, public knowledge. It's got to be totally weird for Mom too. Not to mention Dad-it must be a surreal experience to see your second child playing atop your first child's grave. Not to mention next to his first wife's grave.

I quietly re-introduce myself-it's been a long time-and leave a stuffed animal for my big sister.


End file.
